


A Little Taste of Hell

by Artphyxia



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor Has a Heart (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Cannibalism, F/M, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human!Alastor, Kind of slowburn?, Murder, Period-Typical Sexism, Romance, Suspense, Sweet Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Toxic love, Yandere Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), alastor is asexual but willing to compromise?, and maybe therapy?, because i'm dumb, but also kind of cute, enemies to lovers?, eventually involves other characters, he can be sweet when he wants to be, i need a glass of water, i probably will eff up the historical accuracy at times, kind of, reader POV, reader is pretty badass, slight canon divergence probably, starts out in the 1930s, when the hunter becomes the hunted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artphyxia/pseuds/Artphyxia
Summary: You're a hunter on a mission. Having traveled to New Orleans to investigate a peculiar string of murders, you must use wit and skill to outsmart the killer and give him a taste of his own medicine.Will you find the killer that plagues the city? Or will he find you first?(reader pov, reader's name is Jane Doe because I find it funny)
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 87





	1. A Doe's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this as an original story originally, but found the idea of incorporating it into Hazbin Hotel pretty fitting (and hilarious!). So I changed the names and the setting and some other details and here we are! Let the thirst begin!
> 
> It's my first time writing something with a reader pov, so please feel free to let me know what you think! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The trolley was lively, as expected of a Friday afternoon. You scanned the crowd of gentlemen, noticing some were already inebriated with giggle water. Somewhere, among the throngs of dapper dans and pretty gals was a monster, hiding in plain sight. And, perhaps more terrifying to think about, _his next victim._

From your research, it was evident that the killer was meticulous. There were few suspects and no real evidence to speak of. Nothing was really known of the killer, except that he was presumed to be a man. No surprise there. It was a common misconception that women were too delicate and well-meaning to do such horrific things. On this particular case, however, you felt inclined to agree with the presumption. The victims ranged between both men and women, of different sizes and ages. The manner in which they had been murdered suggested someone with the means to wander around at night without raising suspicion. Having been reprimanded several times for doing the same thing, you thought it likely that the murderer was a man, or at the very least someone who had the appearance of one. 

A strange sense of unease and excitement washed over you, making the back of your head tingle. The thrill of the hunt, your father had called it, though his hunting lessons had been intended for deer and moose rather than serial killers.

It was the same thing, really, you figured.

Both die when shot in the head.

While your father had always been lenient in regards to your fascination of all things _unladylike_ (your mother's words), the world was a hypocritical place with little patience for your deviations from all that was proper and _normal._ The rules placed upon young women were restrictive, and frankly, quite riddiculous, which is why you opted to ignore them whenever possible. However, there were benefits to occasionally indulging those old wise men and their self-indulgent delusions. You found it worked wonders under the right circumstances. 

You caught a flash of movement to your right and moved aside just as one of the drunk men tumbled past you and fell on all fours. A roar of laughter erupted from his companions, who cheered him on as he tried to get back up on his feet.

You tensed as the man grabbed onto you for support, pulling down on your dress.

“Pardon m’miss,” he slurred, sliding his calloused hands up your arms as he rose.

You resisted the urge to kick him back down again. You had to act the part of an unassuming lady, after all. A shiver ran down your spine as the man’s touch lingered a little too long on your skin.

“Yous real preddieh!” he exclaimed, making an exaggerate swing with his arm to emphasize his point—the momentum of the movement making him nearly tumble over again.

You offered him a stiff smile, reminded of the knife concealed underneath your dress, fastened to a holster around your thigh. It was always best to be prepared for the unwanted attention of serial-killers and other, equally fatal men. Their methods may differ, but neither were something you would risk falling victim to.

“Come on, Edd, stop botherin’ the dame,” said one of the man’s companions, calling him back.

The man shook his head violently in protest. The man's companion rolled his eyes. Together with another man, they hauled the drunk man away and sat him down on the floor.

You relaxed, realizing you were getting off at the next stop.

With your suitcase in one hand and a rather heavy wooden case in the other, you made your way to a picturesque little hotel. The green windows were lined with a row of flower beds, long trails of leaves hanging off their edges like something out of a painting. The walls were painted a bright orange, fitting in among the varied array of colours surrounding the block. You glanced up at the sign above the entrance, cracking a smile as you read the hand-painted name of the hotel.

_Abyssinia._

The owner seemed to have a sense of humour. You would have no trouble getting along, then.

As you made to walk up the steps to the porch, the door burst open, and a man came storming out, swearing profusely as he went. “Fuck ya lookin’ at!” the man barked as he noticed you staring. He pushed you out of the way with excessive force. You lost your balance for a moment, nearly dropping the heavy wooden case in the process, but fortunately found purchase against the porch railing.

You noticed a woman standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. She wore a floral-printed day dress, and kept her hair styled in a wavy bob. 

“Trouble?” you inquired, straightening up from the railing.

“And then some!” the woman said, shaking her head. “He’s a rascal, that Johnny Dewitt. Never you mind him, love. I kindly let him know that there’ll be hell to pay if he ever sets his foot in here again.”

“I’m sure. And here I thought New Orleans would be a bore,” you joked. Between the bayou and the voodoo and the murders, there was hardly room for boredom.

Living cooped up in a town that hadn't seen new people in the last fifteen years was boring.

There, even a Jane Doe was known to everybody.

You couldn't count how many times people had told you variations of the same old jokes.

_What do you call a Jane Doe?_

A deer who nobody knows!

Or, your personal favourite:

_Who is Jane's preferred companion?_

_Dill Doe._

You had tried hard not to snort at that one, but your lack of embarrassment had given you away. The bullies had distanced themselves after that, uncomfortable by your unapologetic demeanor.

Something was telling you this woman would not be so quick to judge.

"You don't happen to have any curiosity shops in the area?" you asked. When hunting a killer, one must take whatever protection they can.

The woman laughed heartily. “Where you been, cher? New Orleans is the home of magic and mystery, haven't you heard? 'Course we do. It's two blocks down.”

“Consider me mystified.”

The woman gave another huff of laughter and opened the door wide. “My name’s Beatrice. I got a feeling we’ll be fast friends.”

“Jane Doe,” you said, surprised when Beatrice simply nodded. You smiled brightly. “And I think you’re right.”

“Let’s get you all set up, doll. I think I saw a key with your name on it.” She offered you a wink, before ushering you inside. 

The inside of the hotel was as picturesque as the outside, with fancy wooden furniture, ornamental emerald wallpaper and an open fireplace giving the lobby a cosy yet luxurious feel to it.

Beatrice showed you to your room upstairs and then left you to unpack, figuratively and literally.

Your room was fashioned similarly to the lobby, albeit without a fireplace. It had everything you could possibly need for your stay; a large bed, a large wooden dresser, a vanity table, and a tall full-body mirror. You smiled as you discovered there was a writing desk in front of the window, overlooking the street below.

It was _perfect._

You could already imagine yourself staying up late by that very window, hunched over your research and writing down your progress. It was the starting point of the hunt, as well as its end.

You would be the one to find the killer—and then you would record his name in your journal. You couldn’t think of a better trophy.

You lifted up the polished wooden case on the writing desk and unlatched the locks. Inside lay your rifle, its parts freshly cleaned and neatly arranged into order.

_Well_ , you thought. _Best get to work._


	2. A magnolia by any other name

**Chapter 2**

**A magnolia by any other name**

You had gathered up all the newspapers you could find in the hotel and spent most of the morning reading every article that might be related to the serial killings plaguing the city. The headline _Serial killer still at large!_ caught your interest and you scanned the double-spread article for anything of use.

You sighed, leaning back.

There wasn’t much. Apart from the usual fear-mongering bollocks and groundless speculations, what you could garner from the articles overall was that the killer had no obvious _type,_ only killed at night and that the victims’ bodies had no signs of defensive injuries, meaning they either knew him or felt he was no threat until the point of the kill. The most interesting thing, however, was the missing body parts. With every corpse, there were parts missing—sometimes the liver, other times patches from their backs or thighs.

You had a growing suspicion of why that was.

Beatrice might have an idea on possible suspects, seeing how she appeared to know most anyone and anything going on in the city. Last night, over dinner, she had entertained you with stories on most of the people in the neighbourhood. How she knew all this, you had no idea, but her wits were sharp, and you would be grateful for an extra pair of eyes on the look-out. You had a mind to ask her about her thoughts on the murders but had decided to proceed with caution. A woman gossiping about murders out of concern for her own safety and that of her loved ones was one thing, a woman obsessing over murders was a different story…

You glanced to the small oval portrait that you had brought with you, perched on the bed-side table as a constant reminder. Your mother, hair styled to perfection, her puckish smile making your stomach twist into knots.

Your mother, who used to brush your hair and sing you to sleep. Who had loved you so dearly she had gone out late at night to search for you in this city of jazz and magic. But it wasn’t you she had found.

It was Death.

If only you hadn’t snuck outside that night, entranced by the music and the mystery and the _fun_. If only you had never let her drag you along on that stupid trip to begin with. 

_A new beginning,_ she had promised.

Not quite the one you had imagined. But began it had—this new obsession which had spurred you on for the coming three years and kept you engaged to this day.

Terrified for you—or maybe _of_ you—your father had thought that being far away from New Orleans would give you space to grieve, that it would dull the fury simmering beneath your skin, grinding into your bones—that it would quell the itch which kept your every waking moment occupied with honing your craft, your strength, your agility.

For the first time in your life, your father had tried to make you a proper lady, to distract you with etiquette and schooling fit for a socialite, hoping to steer you away from this perilous path you were determined to pave. It was something your mother would have done, and you supposed it might be your father’s way of grieving. But even then, he couldn’t stop you. He just didn’t know it.

You bided your time, learning to smile when you wanted to cry and keep quiet when you would rather scream. You grew patient and skilled, waiting to scratch the itch which would not go away.

You were finally back. And you had not let those three years of waiting go to waste.

You unsheathed the hunting knife hidden underneath your dress, admiring the way the blade glinted in the morning light. You had crafted it yourself, forged it with one purpose and one alone.

To hunt down this John Doe of a killer and mount his head on your wall.

* * *

Feeling a little cooped up, you took Beatrice’s advice to go out for a stroll and explore the neighbourhood. The afternoon was pleasantly warm and so you had chosen your pale pink chiffon dress and a white cloche hat.

 _There's a lot of lil' secrets in these parts,_ Beatrice had told you on your way out, giving you a wink. _Keep your eyes open, you might find yourself in a world you didn't even know you were meant for._

She didn't need to tell you: you were always keeping your eyes open. If there were any secrets, you would find them. That's just how you were wired. Mysteries had been your bread and butter long before you had made one in particular your full-time obsession. Whether it was finding out who was crushing on who, or which of your cousins ate the last donut, you had always had a knack for finding out the truth. 

However, there was one truth you didn't particularly care for, but it took rather desperate measures to ignore it. You needed something more _potent_.

Beatrice had told you the curiosity shop was located a few blocks down. Determined, you set out to find it.

The building immediately stood out among the colourful shops surrounding it, its exterior painted entirely black. A sign in the window said, _accurate readings and fortunes foretold._ Peering inside, you saw all manner of strange clutter—artifacts, orbs, crystals, and books with weird symbols. Strange dolls and charms hung from the ceiling, and you wondered if they had anything to do with this _voodoo_ business you’d heard about. It sounded ominous enough, but you were admittedly ignorant of this practice of magic and mysticism, or if it even was.

Your mother used to draw strange symbols too, under your bed and on the vanity in her room. If they had been for protection, they’d done a poor job of it.

Still, you were curious.

Upon entering the shop, a woman who looked remarkably like a witch turned away from stocking the shelves with jars of strange liquids and gave you a judgemental once-over. She was dark of skin and painted with white symbols you had never seen before. Her nails were long, painted gold, and she wore a long black dress. She looked like a siren who had risen up from the harsh waves of a midnight storm, of waters black and powerful, with a beauty that was soft but with the potential to crush skulls should she wish to. 

“You lost, hon?” the woman asked, an alluring lilt to her voice.

“No,” you said with certainty. “I’m in the pursuit of a charm—something to counter bad dreams.”

“I’ve got a few good potions for that. They’ll knock you out real good. Promise.”

You shook your head. “I need something for when I’m… awake.” Day or night, they were terrors all the same. Shadows, lurking in the corner of your eyes, whispering, laughing, _singing_. They were too familiar for your liking, snippets of memories better left forgotten. You wanted them gone.

That gave the woman pause. “A sensitive, are you? I have just the thing.”

You scoffed. If the dead was haunting you, it was in a figurative sense. “Hardly.”

“Just crazy, then?” the woman asked, voice tinged with humour.

“If the entire world is crazy, is anyone, really?” you offered with a shrug.

She gave you a look of approval, then began rummaging through the shelves until she found a small box. She slid it over the counter and said: “Sensitive or not, that’ll be two green ones, missy.”

“Two _dollars?_ That’s absurdly expensive.”

The woman made a show of looking you over, giving a pointed look to the expensive dress you’d had tailored. “You can afford it.”

You could, but that was hardly the point. “You can keep the box, I’ll just take the charm,” you said, struggling to smile politely as you slid the money to her.

“Suit yourself,” the woman said and flashed you a smile. “Good doin’ business with you.”

“That remains to be seen,” you said, fastening the braided charm around your wrist. If you focused on it, there was a soft hum emanating from the carved piece of bone—the centrepiece of the charm, the proof that it housed a spell of sorts. The darkness in the corners of the shop seemed to recede, becoming less of the whispers they had been, less _alive._

The woman watched you curiously. “You feel it, don’t you?”

“Barely.” The charm was warm to the touch, like a gentle kiss that lingered on your wrist.

“That’s a whole lot more than most. If you weren’t so adamant ‘bout suppressin’ it, you might be able to use it.”

“So you can sell me more things?” you asked, a smile curving on your lips.

The woman’s smile widened in response. “I’ll be seein’ you soon, I’m sure.”

“If I reconsider, I know where to go,” you said. “Have a lovely day.”

“Be careful, hon. There are people out there tryn’a sell you more dangerous things than me.”

“Better keep a close grip on my purse then.”

A strange expression passed over the woman’s face, and she bit her lower lip as if to quell a laugh. “Take care, little magnolia. Until we meet again.”

* * *

You decided to take a more scenic route back to Abyssinia, down an alley through a block of old houses with large stone walls surrounding the properties. The path was grassy and unpaved, mostly frequented by neighbouring children and cats, perhaps.

Curious, you hoisted yourself up on the edges of the walls, sneaking glimpses on the lavish gardens on the other side. Further down, you found a gate overgrown with foliage. Through the thick of vines and leaves you caught a glimpse of metal and behind them a sign. _The Secret Garden Café._ An apt name, you had to admit.

Perhaps it used to be a café, which had since been left to be claimed by nature. It didn’t look like it was open, exactly, but you tested the door—and surprisingly it swung open with a whine.

Feeling like you were trespassing into someone’s back yard, you followed the stone path up to a dollhouse-like building with yellow walls and white eaves. There was a smell of freshly baked bread and a sign on the door that said _open_.

Feeling both curious and a little peckish, you decided to try it out.

A bell rang as you entered and you flinched, before remembering that you weren’t actually breaking and entering.

You were struck by how quiet it was. There was no one seated inside the café as far as you could tell. And there was no one at the counter either.

You weren’t quite sure, but the interior seemed smaller than what you had expected. It had looked fairly large from the outside, but the café was rather small and _cute_ on the inside.

 _Homely_ , almost.

You relished in the scent of freshly baked bread, vanilla powder, and the distant lulling melody of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice somewhere in the back of the café.

Your stomach rumbled, reminding you that it was nearly dinnertime and you hadn’t eaten since this morning.

You wet your lips as you perused the alternatives, which were beautifully displayed on the counter. Caramel cake, jam rolls and _oooh_! Strawberry shortcake.

Strawberries had always been your preference. Though you were partial to chocolate on occasion.

You rang the desk bell on the counter. A moment passed, and then a woman came out from the back, her sweet face and her red-brown hair dusted with flour.

“Goodness! I hope you didn’t wait too long!” she said. “There usually aren’t that many customers—actually there aren’t really _any_ customers around this time of day. There’s mostly a few frequenting locals and the occasional tourists. We also host events and weddings! But that’s not relevant! Where was I going with this…?” She trailed off, then bounced up, retracing her train of thought. “Yes! I’ve got all these buns in the oven and—Oh! Not like that! Sorry.” She laughed then shook her head, as if realizing what she was saying. “You probably wasn’t even thinking that at all. I am so very sorry!”

Your brain threatened to overheat from trying to keep up with all the different directions this conversation was going, so you decided to just stand there and smile until she ran out of air.

“That’s quite alright,” you said. “These pastries look divine.”

“Oh, gosh—you think so? I made them myself!” She made a face, her hand going to the side of her face. “What am I saying! Of course, I did. That’s the point of a café.” She offered you a sheepish smile. “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my body.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. She was simply too adorable. “Best to make sure you keep it there, then,” you replied.

“I will! Sorry, I’m so rude—just babbling on and on when you must be wanting to order! What can I get you, sweetheart?”

“A piece of that delicious-looking shortcake to go, please.”

“Good choice! It’s our best-seller! Probably. It would be… if more people came around." She shrugged. "It’s off-season. And people don't really come here for the pastries anyway--” she cut herself off, her hand going to her mouth as if she had said something she shouldn't have. "I mean, of course they come here for the pastries. Why else would you go to a café?" She gave a nervous laugh. “Don’t mind me. It’s all the vanilla powder—it’s getting to my head.”

“I noticed that the sign was overgrown. Perhaps that’s why nobody can find this place.”

“ _You_ found it,” the girl said, approval gleaming in the russet of her irises. The girl, whose nametag said Bettie, raised a hand to the side of her face and leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “That means you’re one of us.”

You raised an eyebrow at her. “One of us?”

“A seeker. You came to New Orleans in search of something, no? I can tell. And you found us, or well, _me_. You have that look in your eye. There is something you want and you’re certain you can’t find it anywhere else.”

“Well, I was hoping to buy something sweet,” you said, steering the topic away from potentially dangerous waters. This girl was more observant than she let on.

“Oh!” Bettie exclaimed. “Right! Your shortcake! I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll get right on it!”

You went to fish out your purse from the pocket of your coat while she plated the strawberry shortcake. The bell at the door went off with a high-pitched ding, but you barely registered it, patting down your pockets with fervour.

Oh, no.

It was _gone._

But when? And _how?_

You had definitely had it back at the shop.

Had the shop owner stolen it on your way out? Is that what she had been so smug about?

_I’ll be seein’ you soon, I’m sure._

That _witch._

“I’m so sorry,” you began, cheeks heating, “Any chance I can do the dishes? It appears I have lost my purse.”

Bettie gave you a sympathetic look. “Well, sure. If you want—"

“That won’t be necessary!” came a chipper voice behind you, making you flinch at the volume.

A man swooped in by your side, tall and of gracile build.

Bettie lit up at the sight of him, giving him a friendly wave. They were clearly acquainted.

The man beamed a smile your way, revealing perfect pearly whites. He had a similar shade of red-brown hair as Bettie. “Pardon my intrusion, my dear. I couldn’t help but overhear your predicament. Allow me to be of assistance!” he didn’t wait for you to accept the offer before he handed Bettie a dollar bill. “Keep the change, Bettie, and give me one of your delightful coffee blends.”

“Th—thi—this is way too much!” Bettie spluttered.

“Chivalry has no price limit, my dear,” the man said. “I’m only doing what every good Samaritan should.”

“You didn’t need to do that!” you blurted.

You hated to be indebted to people. And chivalry from men always seemed to bring along more trouble into the mix, giving them the insane idea that they somehow had rights to you after forcing their aid on you.

But it wasn’t as if you could snatch the dollar bill from Bettie and force him to take it back.

The man turned to you, one eyebrow raised, as if puzzled by your reaction. “Nonsense! A young lady should treasure her hands.”

“And a working man should treasure every cent in these troubling times,” you retorted. “I would much rather pay for it myself. Thank you, though,” you added, trying your best to make it seem genuine.

The man’s smile stretched wider. “No need to feel embarrassed, my dear,” he said, adjusting the oval spectacles he was wearing. “I am delighted to offer my assistance.”

_Well, I don’t need it._

The man threw his head back with a laugh and you realized—to your horror—that you might have let that slip out. He leaned in a little closer, peering down at you through half-lidded eyes. “Your lack of proper payment disagrees with you, darling.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me,” you hurried to say, in an effort to smooth over your unladylike slip-up. “It’s just—my mother always told me not to trouble others and never do anything that might bring her shame.” You let your gaze fall to the floor, presenting the image of a modest and proper lady.

It wasn’t a complete lie. Your mother had _shouted_ , rather than spoken, those words to you after she had caught you chatting up a carnival knife-thrower, convincing him to teach you his tricks. She had dragged you away and given you an earful even a deaf man could hear.

“I’m just embarrassed that my wits fail me at such a young age,” you lied, offering him a pleasant smile.

The man tilted his head slightly to the side, as if he didn’t quite believe you. But then he smiled brightly. “You are certainly no trouble at all, my dear.”

”Well, even so,” you said.

Truth to be told, there was something about this man that unnerved you.

His eyes. Similar to Bettie’s in shade, but more vibrant. They were the colour of dried blood, watching you with an intensity that seemed to linger on your skin.

He was observing you, much like you were observing him.

His gaze was analytical. Purposeful and inquiring, rather than the stolen glances men usually gave you which were either judgemental or borderline lewd in nature.

While it was a welcome change, you found that it only served to unnerve you further.

And his smile.

It was stubborn in the way that it seemed to stay on his face no matter what. In fact, you weren’t sure if you’d seen him make another expression during the entirety of this interaction.

You weren’t one to be charmed easily, but you hated to admit that this man stirred your interest.

But you weren’t in New Orleans to hunt for eligible gentleman callers. You were here to find a killer.

“Don’t you worry, sweetie!” Bettie cut in, alerting you to the fact that you and the man had been staring at each other in silence, gauging one another for a few seconds short of scandalous. “Alastor here might just be one of the few people fortunate enough to live lavishly nowadays and get away with it. He’s a radio host, a rather famous one at that.”

The man—Alastor—gave a nod in agreement. “Right you are, dear cousin. See, there is nothing to feel hesitant about! I have both the motive and the means.”

“Alright then…” you relented. “Thank you."

You noticed Alastor's gaze going down your arm, to the charm on your wrist. You put your hands behind your back, covering the charm with your hand. 

Even without looking at him, the smile was evident in his voice. "Trouble sleeping?"

You looked up at him, surprised.

So he was familiar with a little bit of witchcraft, then. Curious. He didn't look the type, though you supposed few people wore their secrets on their sleeves. Except you, apparently.

"I do. It's a frightening world we live in, with killings and what not. I thought a little placebo might go a long way." You struggled to keep up your innocent act around this man. Everything about him made you want to challenge him, to wipe that smile off his face and see what lies beneath. "I'm surprised you know what it's for. Perhaps you have a similar ailment?" You offered a kind smile, the one your mother had taught you by practicing hundreds of times in front of the vanity mirror as she brushed your hair.

 _No man or woman can resist a pretty smile_ , your mother would say. _It is the greatest weapon a woman can wield._ While you would argue that a shotgun or a knife was just as—if not more—effective, you had humoured her nonetheless. In situations like this, where violence or threats would not further your inquiries, a little manipulation came well in handy.

Alastor offered a pleasant smile in reply, then said: "I have been known to dabble, but not for lack of sleep. I rather enjoy the night myself."

You didn't doubt it. A man of his... aesthetics was bound to have his nights spoken for. 

Thinking about it... that might actually be helpful. The killer was active at night and it was likely that his hunting grounds coincided with places where hunting for company wasn't frowned upon. Nothing inspires trust and amicability like giggle water, after all. But how would you ask? While men enjoyed gossip as much as women, they were not nearly as forward with a woman present. Speaking of such morbid things with _a lady -_ oh, no that would not do at all. The poor dear might faint at the mention of blood or the notion of intimacy, for women were oh-so-weak and prone to such things. He probably would give you a pat on the head as he laughed in your face. But if he didn't _know_ what you were asking about...

"Then would I be right to assume you know your way about town in the dark?" you asked. "I have been meaning to find a good place to dance."

If the killer moved about at night, preying on wealthy and poor alike even on weekends, he would have to navigate streets full of people. It was likely he would dress up to fit in, being unnoticeable in the crowd. There was still the possibility that the killer was part of the club-goers, therefore blending in completely. With the rest of the party drunk, he might even be able to sneak out and return after an hour or two without ever being missed. If that was the case, knowing the best haunts would certainly be a help.

"Oh, Al's an avid dancer!" Bettie said. "You should see him--the ladies practically get in line for a dance with him! That, and for his looks." She gave a laugh.

"I'm sure," you said, keeping your eyes on Alastor, hoping he would respond in his own words.

He turned his gaze to you, smile growing a fraction, as if he knew that you were waiting. "I know a fair number of places. The known, and the less so," he said. "Why? Is this your way of asking if I can take you out?"

Taken aback, you simply stared at him. 

"Al!" Bettie exclaimed, smacking him on the arm. "Don't embarrass her like that. Geesh."

You cleared your throat, annoyed that your ears had the audacity to flush. The smugness on his face crushed any hope of him not having noticed. "That would be awfully bold of me, seeing how we just met, Mr. Alastor. No, I simply wanted a recommendation."

"Hmmm," he drawled, eyes not leaving yours for even a second. "Then The Royal would be a good place to start. It's popular, the right kind of lively and the company is simply to die for!"

The Royal. You might have to check it out.

Now if only you had any idea of what the killer was _after._ There must be something connecting all the victims together. Something that caught his interest. _Why them?_ You needed to figure it out, whatever it was, if you wanted any chance at _drawing him out_ in the open. 

Whatever it was, you would become it. 

Drunk and trusty of strangers was a start, you supposed. If it didn't pan out, you might at least have some fun.

If you still _could._ Fun was what had put you here in the first place. Whatever joy you had, it was tainted by guilt and something else... something _darker_ which had clung to you ever since your mother had been murdered.

"Right," you said, wanting to bring this conversation to a close. "I’ll be sure to pay it a visit when the mood hits me. Now, I better get going.”

Bettie threw a glance out the window. It was getting dark, the streetlights soon to light up. “Where are you staying? If it's not far, I'm sure Alastor wouldn't mind walking you back home."

You shook your head. “Oh, no—I couldn't—"

“Surely she must be staying at miss Beatrice’s lovely home away from home," Alastor said. "It's only a few blocks away if I'm not mistaken."

You frowned, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

“It’s obvious, darling. You are clearly not from around here—I never forget a pretty face,” he tapped the frame of his spectacles, “and this little café is a well-kept secret, reserved for the curious and the bold. Miss Beatrice is one such person.” He gave you a strange look, his smile stretching wider. “Which one are you, I wonder.”

_Pray that you’ll never know. My interests are rather singular._

“I wouldn't say I'm much of either," you lied, grabbing the packaged pastries and flashing Alastor another well-practiced smile. “Thank you again.”

"My pleasure. Perhaps in return, you may give me your name, dear. I believe we have yet to properly introduce ourselves."

Bettie gasped, as if she had just realized this. “Dear me, where are my manners! I can’t believe I didn’t ask your name.”

Damn. You had hoped it wouldn't come to this. You weren’t thrilled about giving out your name to just anyone, considering the circumstances.

But refusing would be much more suspicious. 

“My name is Jane Doe,” you relented.

Alastor seemed to process this for a moment, as if contemplating whether to take your reply at face value or ask you to clarify. His smile went rigid while he considered, upholding the façade of a friendly stranger. But there was a tenseness around his eyes that told you there was something more beneath all that.

"It's rather plain," you said, aware that it might look like you were trying to fool them with the most obvious fake name in history.

"No! Not at all!" Bettie hurried to say. "It's just... I don't think I've ever met anyone who's _actually_ a Jane Doe!"

Her excitement was infectuous, and you felt your lips twitch upwards, despite the scrutiny of her cousin, who was still studying you with an intensity that felt warm on your skin.

You dared a glance his way, offering him a sheepish smile, alluding to the fact that you were, in fact, not joking. 

Alastor searched your face, looking for signs of deceit, you supposed, and then his smile went bright once more.

“An extraordinary name for an extraordinary dame!” he said approvingly, grabbing your hand to give it a quick kiss. “It’s a pleasure, Jane! The name’s Alastor, as you might have gathered already.”

“Nice to _properly_ make your acquaintance, Alastor."

Suddenly, Bettie was in your face, holding both of your hands in hers. "And I'm Bettie! Bettie Hastings. Just call me Bettie!”

”Pleasure to meet you, Bettie.”

She let you go and turned to Alastor. ”Seeing how we're no longer simple strangers—Al, would you be a doll and make sure she gets home safe? I don't trust anyone these days."

"I'd be delighted," Alastor said. “One can’t be too careful.”

You were _not_ onboard with that idea and you schooled your features to composure, as you had learned through your years of training. "That’s not necessary. I'm sure you must be very busy. I do fine enough on my own, don't you worry. It's only a few blocks!"

"That just won't do!" Alastor protested. "It's a frightening world we live in, as you said yourself. There is a killer on the loose, after all. It would be terribly irresponsible of me to let you walk home alone, at the mercy of whoever see you fit for prey."

Clever of him to use your own words and logic against you, to make you feel at loss for a counterargument. 

Two could play at that game.

"It's not that I distrust your intentions, Mr. Alastor, but it would be rather scandalous to have a stranger, much less a man of no relation to me, walk me home alone at this hour. As much as I appreciate your help, I would like to avoid unnecessary gossip, if possible. Especially with one as... accomplished as yourself."

While social norms had been enforced to keep young women as yourself at a disadvantage, the underestimation of women’s ingenuity and ability to use these norms instead to their advantage would leave men helplessly shackled to their own silly notions of propriety. Yet another lesson your mother had taught you.

You turned away, masking the smile threatening to reveal the thrill of triumph blossoming inside you.

Alastor clasped his hands behind his back. "I hardly think a simple walk would be inappropr--" 

"She's right," Bettie chimed in. "If people find out you walked her home without barely knowing her name... Gossip would be an understatement! The next announcement you make on your radio show would be about yourself!"

His smile faded, for the first time since you had met him. Just barely. Then it sprung back up again. "Perhaps another time then! Once we're better acquainted."

"Is that your way of asking me out?" you said, unable to help yourself. 

He flashed you a smile, more genuine, perhaps even a little astonished. "Curious or bold, it appears I have my answer."

”Then I might have said too much too early,” you replied. “I bid you both a good evening.”

“You should come back after closing time, Jane!” Bettie called as you began walking towards the door. “That’s when all the fun starts!”

You weren’t entirely sure what she meant by that invitation, and you kept pondering as you walked back to the hotel, puzzled by the mysterious pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> It's early in the morning and I'm tired. Sorry for any mistakes! :D


	3. When fists speak louder than words

Beatrice was single-handedly upholding the dinner conversation, as you fumed over the witch who had stolen your purse. You couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t even _touched_ you. How on God’s green Earth…

Magic. It was the most obvious conclusion.

This city was already getting on your nerves.

You had passed the shop on your way back to the hotel, but she had already closed up for the day, perhaps to avoid confrontation. Oh, the witch would get her wish. You would definitely see each other again.

But this time it was the witch who would pay her dues.

“Don’t you worry, love!” Beatrice said, having noticed your gaze, fixed solely on the fork in your hand. “Lost things are bound to turn up eventually. They always do.”

You had thought better not to tell Beatrice about what had really happened, lest her gossiping nature get ahead of her, alerting the witch before you had a chance to confront her.

You snapped out of plotting vengeful schemes and offered her a soft smile. “Thank you. I should count myself lucky that I always keep spares, with a little money in each.” 

Beatrice laughed. “Lucky, indeed! Imagine if you had stayed anywhere else and hadn’t paid for your stay in advance. A single girl with no money and no family or friends to aid you in a new city. And so pretty too! My, you would be eaten alive.”

She was right. Even a socialite was rendered helpless without connections. You wondered if that might have been the point.

Was the witch hoping to drive you to desperation, _force_ you to indulge in what your mother had called _the call of the wind?_

Your mother used to speak to the winds, to the petals that danced on the back of the breeze. She had an understanding—a courtship, she called it—between herself and nature. An understanding which gave her an ability to do things other people couldn’t.

Delusions, your father had named them, and perhaps he was right. You still felt the ghost of her nails on your forearm from the night you had left for New Orleans.

_It is not the winds that call you, my darling, but the shadows._

The hum of the charm was still present, still warm on your skin. You trailed a finger over the smooth surface of bone, finding comfort in the gesture.

You still didn’t know what she had tried to accomplish by bringing you here.

Had she wanted you to flee from the shadows or embrace them?

“But he truly is a dear, that Alastor,” Beatrice said. “A first-class gentleman, he is. You know, he helped my nephew secure a job at his studio. The boy can’t stop boastin’ about it, but I suppose I can’t fault him for it. It’s a spectacular show!”

“Is it?” The mention of Alastor sparked a tingle on the back of your neck, a familiar thrill best kept under wraps. 

A hunt for another time, perhaps.

“Are you meaning to tell me you haven’t ever tuned in? Love, you’ve been missin’ out. His voice was _made_ for radio, I must say. And the stories! They’re chillin’ to the bone sometimes, but you can’t stop yourself from listenin’.”

He did have a pleasant voice; you would give him that much. “What kind of stories?”

“All kinds, love. But mostly the kinds that remind you to double-check the locks on the doors. He covers all the crimes in the area—like the recent murders—and even ones across the country.”

That caught your interest. “Well, I suppose I might have to tune in sometime.” Seeing how you were already on the topic, you decided to take the chance. “It’s an awful business these murders. How long have they been going on?”

“About three years, I think.”

Three years and four months, to be exact. But you couldn't tell her that without revealing how utterly obsessed you were with this string of murders. So instead you simply nodded.

There might even have been another victim much earlier, covered only by one local newspaper. Believed to be a suicide, nobody had given it much thought, but through your research you had found clues which suggested otherwise. The placement of the shotgun for one. The victim had supposedly pulled the trigger with his right hand, despite the gun being modified to cater to a left-handed shooter. Despite this, it was only one of the man’s daughters which had been certain it was murder, but that was somewhat understandable, judging by what you had learned about the man himself. Drunk, rude, and quick to raise a hand, you supposed people wouldn’t care even if he had been murdered.

A rather safe place to start, if one was in need of _practice_.

“And they still have no idea who it is?” you asked, mock-concern on your face.

Beatrice shook her head. “He’s an elusive sort. If I would guess, he’s someone with connections and resources. It’s not easy to transport a body, so he must either be built like a house or he owns a car. Perhaps he even has someone to help him.”

You agreed.

A few of the bodies had been found out in the bayou, and there may be many more still not found. It was not an easy place to navigate, which meant he must also be familiar with the area. A smart place to hide a body, considering the alligators and the muddy waters of the swamp. It wasn’t a place people frequented often, and even if they did, finding a body out there was like finding a needle in a haystack.

“To think that he could be virtually anyone, anywhere, passing for an ordinary Joe,” you murmured. You wondered if you would ever find him.

Beatrice’s features softened. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, love.” She reached across the table, placing a warm hand on top of yours. “Don’t worry, I keep a gun close at hand.” She offered you a warm smile and your throat felt suddenly thick with affection for this woman who offered her friendship so freely to a stranger.

“I hope they catch him soon,” you said.

“I’m sure they will. If there is one thing that’s certain, it’s that justice will always prevail in the end. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”

You smiled.

Of that, there was no doubt.

* * *

After dinner, you offered to help with the dishes, but Beatrice ushered you out of the kitchen and demanded that you do something _fun._

You lingered in the doorway. “I can’t believe you do everything around here. Don’t you have staff to do these kinds of things?”

“I do, but it's the weekend, love. They’ll arrive tomorrow morning and will stay until Friday. I can't ask two so young to walk all the way out of town with a killer about, so I’ve arranged for them to stay here at the hotel during the weeks and take the train home during the weekends.”

“That’s very kind of you,” you said, and truly meant it.

She dismissed your compliment with a wave. “I’m sure there are more fun things to do than standing around watching me polish porcelain all evenin’. You should go out, enjoy the city life. It’s Saturday, love.”

“You did just say there’s a killer about,” you pointed out.

“I did, but that doesn’t mean I think you stupid. Don’t go down alleyways by your lonesome and you should be fine. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that sharp little thing you carry with you at all times.” She gave you a knowing look and you felt the warmth drain from your hands. “I passed your room this morning,” she explained. “You looked like you know how to use it.”

You flushed, your composure faltering. Had you forgotten to close the door?

“I don’t blame you,” Beatrice said, having taken notice of the panic slipping through the cracks. “I carry a bag full of chili powder, just in case I need a quick escape. Those little things burn like you wouldn’t believe!”

That made you laugh. “It’s rather unladylike to carry around knives, I know, but I hoped it might make me feel a little safer.”

“Oh, honey, you may carry as many as you like. God knows there are predators everywhere, not just killers. You ever find yourself in a pickle, you stab first and ask questions later. Ain’t no decent man that would ever approach a single lady without proper introductions.”

If you didn’t like her before, there was no doubt you liked her now.

“I’ll do that,” you said, flashing her a bright smile.

“Good. Now go out and have some fun and stop pretendin’ to be a wallflower. It doesn’t suit you.”

You could pay a visit to The Royal, you supposed. Mix business with pleasure. But it was already late and you didn’t feel like going to such a busy place. No, you were in the mood for something else. There _was_ still the invitation to return to the café after-hours, for whatever reason.

Now that you thought about it... Hadn't Alastor mentioned Beatrice?

“Would you say you're curious or bold?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

Beatrice paused, her hand suspended in the air for a moment, before she put it down and turned around. “I believe most people would call me bold.” She gave you a knowing smile. “I see Bettie is friendly as always. Did you accept her invitation?”

“I wasn’t sure that it was one. I mean, who would go to a café in the middle of the night? It seems a little suspicious, doesn’t it?”

Beatrice nodded. “It would be, if it was the café she was inviting you to.”

You frowned, then it dawned on you. “Oh. Is she—not that I mind, but was she asking me to…?”

Beatrice tilted her head to the side, grasping at your meaning. Then she caught on.

She gave a loud laugh. “Goodness, no! Well, I wouldn’t know anything about _that_ , but I’m certain she was asking you to come and meet the inner circle, not for a rendezvous.”

You felt your ears turn red with embarrassment, for jumping to such silly conclusions. “I’m sorry—I misunderstood.”

“Clearly,” Beatrice said, laughing softly. “Though I’m sure she would be flattered that you would consider it, if she had.”

“No, that’s not what I…” you sighed, realizing you were digging your own grave, “Nevermind.”

“I’m just teasing you, love. Bettie has a side business, apart from the café. It’s something best discovered on your own. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”

“She isn’t harvesting organs, by any chance?”

“Heavens, you’re morbid, girl,” said Beatrice, but there was no bite to her words.

“These are morbid times,” you said with a shrug.

“They are, indeed,” Beatrice agreed. “Now, go change into something fancy and head on over there before I throw this dirty rag in your face.”

You didn’t doubt that she would, so you set off upstairs to change.

* * *

Your mother had taught you everything about make-up and styling, what colour and which style suited your complexion. She had been very keen on your appearance, never allowing a hair out of place.

With your lips perfectly painted a nice crimson shade, and your hair sleek and glossy, you stepped into a deep red evening dress that your mother used to wear. It had been her favourite, with a plunging back and a glossy sheen like the fancy dresses worn by the ladies on the picture shows.

For the finishing touch, you put on a pair of pearl earrings your father had gifted to you on your birthday, then grabbed your coat and headed downstairs.

Beatrice was showering you with compliments all the way to the door and reminded you to keep the knife close. You didn’t argue.

But you still didn’t even know what you were all dressed up for.

You found your way back to the café. The lights were on, which was a good sign. For a while there, you had been wondering if this was all some elaborate prank the orleanians played on newcomers. Even now, as you rang the door bell, you wondered it that might still be the case, but then a minute passed, and Bettie opened the door, all dolled up. She was wearing a silver headband and a dress that ended just above the knee, and if you had cared for such things, you might have deemed it a little scandalous.

“You came!” she exclaimed, pulling you inside by your wrist. “Oh, my! You look absolutely stunning!”

“I was afraid I might be overdressed… I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.”

“Not at all! You’re perfect!” She bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement. “We haven’t had someone new join us for years! Well, except Joseph, but he doesn’t really count. He’s more like an annoying little brother that hides in your closet to spy on you and your friends because he wasn’t invited.” She gestured for you to follow. “Come along!”

Again, you heard music from somewhere in the café, but this time it didn’t seem to be from a gramophone. 

“I’m curious, why did you invite me here?” you asked.

“Well, you’re new and I thought you might want to make a few friends! And I like you—there’s a good feel about you, you know? This is a place to be yourself or find yourself if you’re still not sure. We’re all seekers here.”

Bettie walked to the farthest end of the café, stopping by the wall. She grabbed the beautiful handle of one of the lamps, then turned it to the side with a _click._ Part of the wall swung inward, to an entirely different room.

Baffled, you stood there for a moment.

A side business, Beatrice had said.

Was this a… speakeasy?

You'd heard of them, but had never seen one yourself.

Bettie shut the door after you as you entered and pulled you forward as if to showcase you to the people inside. “Everyone, this is Jane! Such a beau, isn’t she?"

You flashed your well-practiced smile to the people inside, wanting to come across much less awkward than you felt.

"She truly cleans up nice!" Bettie made a face. "Not that she isn’t pretty or clean normally. I'm sure she showers regularly—”

“Thank you, Bettie, my darling. That’s enough,” said a woman draped over an armchair. “Come join us!”

There were seven people, Bettie included. A man was tending the bar, four people were spread out over the lounge suit, the woman in the armchair and three men. Someone was playing the piano in the far back, though you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. 

The woman who had spoken had dark hair and a purple dress hugged her voluptous form. She wore a multi-coloured sash over her hair instead of a headband, and her earrings were large and bold.

In the other armchair next to her sat a man, a hat tipped low over his brow and a bottle of wine in his hand.

_Not even bothering with a glass, huh?_

Bettie sat down on the vacant chesterfield couch, patting at her side, urging you to join her. The men sitting on the opposite couch acknowledged you with smiles as you took a seat. The one on the left perked up—he was tanned with dark curly hair, and wore a cheeky smile. He seemed too young to be here. And a little familiar, though you couldn't pinpoint where you might have seen him before.

The one on the right was looking you over with a different kind of interest, and your skin crawled as you felt his gaze linger where it shouldn’t.

“You weren’t joking, she’s a pretty little thing,” he told Bettie, crossing one leg over the other. “She single?”

You didn’t much appreciate how he spoke of you as if you weren’t sitting right in front of him. “I am,” you spoke up, not wanting others to speak on your behalf.

“Oh, don’t mind Robert,” Bettie cut in. “He’s a bit of a flirt—and when I say a bit, I really mean he forgets everything else whenever a pretty woman is present.”

“Hear, hear!” said the woman in the armchair, and then they all burst out laughing, Robert included.

He shrugged. “What can I say? I have needs, Bettie. And it’s not like I can count on any of you to entertain me for a night. Right, Ruth?” He leaned closer to the woman in the armchair, a mischievous look on his face.

“So do I,” Ruth dismissed him. “If I am to listen to you drooling all over this lil’ bird all evening I’m gonna need a drink. Make it strong, Will!” she called out to the bartender, who gave her a thumbs up in reply.

“But my offer still stands,” Robert continued, “Two women is fine and all, but I have something that you don’t—”

Ruth leaned forward, her black eyes darkening. “Another word about that and so help me, I will break this table with your face.”

Robert chuckled and flung an arm over the back of the couch. “Yes, ma’am.”

You glanced at Bettie, who was fidgeting with a lock of her hair, then at Ruth. Were they possibly...?

Perhaps your initial misunderstanding hadn’t been that far off.

Was that what this place was? A safe haven for people who had to suffer their entire lives at the hands of what was considered _normal?_ Whose every waking moment was perforated with reminders that they were not the norm?

You reassured Bettie with a kind smile, placing a hand on hers, letting it linger for a few seconds before withdrawing. It seemed to do the trick. She relaxed, ceasing her fidgeting, a look of relief erasing all the worry lines from her face. 

“So, you have a side business,” you began, wondering how to best approach the topic. “It’s quaint, if a little... unexpected.”

Bettie scratched her cheek, a little abashed. “Yes! I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable! We’re not hurting anyone, we’re just—”

“In dire need of escapism?” you offered. “I can understand that perfectly well. Who wouldn’t want to drink in these times? I’m glad you would trust me with this secret.”

Bettie grabbed your hand and smiled. “I knew you were one of us. Right away, when I first saw you! I’ve got a keen sense for these kinds of things, you see.”

“I mean, even if she did intend on tellin’ someone, it’s not like she can say it to your face,” said the boy with the cheeky smile.

Bettie frowned. “Hush, Joseph. When have my judgment ever been wrong?”

The boy raised an eyebrow, then pointed to the drink in his hand.

“It’s just for tonight! And you’d better keep it that way or your aunt will know all about this. You should be lucky she’s been so busy keeping the hotel running while you’re goofing around that she doesn’t have time to come by.”

Hotel? Aunt? You looked to Joseph. “Are you, by any chance…?”

“Yup. Don’t tell auntie, please. I’m just here to celebrate my first day on the job.”

Now you knew why you had recognized him: there was definitely a family resemblence.

"You are employed at a radio station, right?" you asked.

His chest puffed up with pride. “I am! And it's not just any radio station either. I work with the finest radio host in New Orl—”

“Now, now,” came an all-too familiar voice. “It’s impolite to boast. Even if it's warranted.”

Slowly, you turned your head around, gaze following the line of the gloved hands on the headrest of the couch, up to the one person you had hoped wouldn't be here. Alastor. He was dressed to the nines—even more so than usual. He was clothed in an ensemble of red and black, as if you had intended to match. Alastor seemed to take notice of this as well, his smile widening as he gave you a quick once-over.

“Hello again, miss Jane,” he said. “I trust you found your way back to the hotel without much trouble.”

“I did, thank you.” You strained not to let your surprise show.

Of course. _Of course,_ he had to be here.

But where the hell had he come from? You hadn’t even noticed him sneak up on you.

There was only seven people in the room. You'd made sure to count, as you always did. 

Come to think of it: the music had gone quiet.

Was he the one playing the piano?

You were a little offended that he could.

"Any luck finding your purse, dear?" he asked. 

"I have an idea of where it is. I'll have it back soon enough."

"Glad to hear it! It must be devastating for one such as yourself to go without it for too long."

You tilted your head a little to the side, unsure of what he was getting at. "Not particularly. My father taught me to survive well enough without money, and my mother taught me how to ensure I would never need to be without it."

"Must be a clever doll, your mother. Most rich folk tend to live under the delusion that their luck will never turn and spend their riches without much thought."

"She was," you admitted, taking out your second purse from your pocket. You grabbed a dollar bill and handed it out to him. "Which is why I am perfectly able to pay you back right away."

Alastor put your arm down, patting you twice on the hand, as if you were a child being silly, reaching for the top shelf despite barely reaching up to the kitchen counter. "No need, my dear! Your company is sufficient enough!"

It probably wasn't meant to be condescending, but you churned at the gesture, nonetheless. You reluctantly returned the money to your purse and put it away. "There must be something you want."

“Hmm. Then, would it be too forward of me to pour you a drink, my dear?” he asked. 

“Only if you intend to poison me.” The light tone of your voice made it apparent it was a joke, but you wouldn’t put it past him. 

He still had an eerie air about him, making you want to shiver. The charm on your wrist grew warmer against your skin. Was it… reacting to him? Or maybe it was just your skin growing colder with unease. 

He laughed. “A little early for that, I should think. We have yet to have a proper argument, my dear. And it would certainly be a waste.”

You smiled. “You flatter me, Mr. Alastor.”

“Just Alastor, please, darling. We’re all friends here. Now, leave your drink to me—I know exactly what you need!” With that, he left for the bar.

You ignored the way Bettie was making faces at you with childish excitement, as if you had promised him your hand or something equally grand.

You enjoyed the banter, but that was all it was. The man was charming, sure, but he was infuriating all the same. And this whole friendly Samaritan act he had going on… you weren’t buying it.

And it annoyed you even more that he was right. The drink he had chosen for you was perfect. It was a strawberry mojito, your absolute favourite.

You had no idea how he knew that, or if he had simply guessed judging by your preference of cakes.

He was reading you, _seeing_ you—the _real_ you—and it didn’t sit well with you at all. For a man that was supposed to be a stranger, he felt too close for comfort. Both literally and figuratively.

Alastor had taken a seat beside you, sitting close enough that your legs might touch if you weren’t careful. You hated that you even took notice of it.

You weren’t one to feel bothered by a male presence, having had your fair share of suitors in the past, but now your heart was beating quickly. If you were afraid or nervous, you couldn’t tell anymore, but it was there—a constant _thump thump thump—_ and you felt rather offended that a stranger would have this effect on your body.

You were the hunter. Always.

You pulled the strings and made them dance.

So why did you feel so much like prey, struggling to remain in control?

And why the hell did that feeling feel suspiciously like _fun?_

You didn’t usually pay attention to anything other than the task at hand: your plan to catch the New Orleans’ killer. Nothing else had any value or interest to you, be it friends or lovers. It all grew boring too fast— and you felt like it was all a distraction from what you had set out to do.

Yet here you were, making friends and getting tipsy when you should be out on the hunt. You had forgotten how it felt, to laugh and truly mean it.

But this... this was actually fun.

This wasn’t where you would have expected to find your laugh again.

You wondered what your mother would think, being in such close quarters with a man, a drink in your hand and a laugh that was genuine rather than pretty.

_She would have reprimanded me._

But you were doing this for her. She might not like your methods, but you would make sure she would have praised you for the results.

The more the evening went on, the more you allowed yourself to feel, to be pulled along with their laughter and their friendship. That didn’t mean you had put aside the hunt entirely, however. No, you were always planning ahead.

Making connections had its perks. The people in this room had access to all the places you needed to go. They were club-goers the lot of them, dancing the nights away at lavish parties. They might have come across him on their nights out. Hell, they might even _know_ the murderer.

"It's getting rather late," you said, realizing the clock was past 1 in the morning already. "I should be leaving." As you rose, so did Alastor.

"Allow me to walk you home, Jane," he said.

"No, thank you—I stand by my earlier statement."

"Can't you stay for just a little while longer?" Bettie asked. 

"Well, I don't think—" Your legs gave way and you wobbled forward, loosing your footing. 

A hand circled around your waist and pulled you up straight, pressing you close.

_What just happened?_

"Dear me, you must still be quite tipsy, darling," Alastor said, his hand warm against your lower ribs. "You better sit down for now."

There it was again, that infuriating smugness. As if he had the upper hand. 

What game was he playing?

As you let him sit you down, you had the most ridiculous realization.

_Did he just... trip me?_

You were a little buzzed, definitely, but not _that_ buzzed. You rarely ever lost your footing, drunk or not. 

The victorious look in Alastor's eyes agreed with you. "Once you've sobered up a little, I must insist on taking you home. Rumours be damned. I can't in good conscience let a young woman walk home at night in such a state."

Like a mouse in a trap, you were caught. Even if you protested, he would just use your intoxication as an excuse to do it anyway.

Damned bastard. 

Your anger faded as Bettie threw her arms around your neck. "Yay! I hope you stay forever!"

You patted her on the back, feeling a little awkward. It wasn't that you didn't like her familiarity, but it had been so long since you'd had people in your life that you actually cared for. You were starting to think that Bettie might become such a person to you, and it was concerning.

You steeled your heart and gently pushed her away. She didn't seem to notice your hesitation. 

Caring complicated things. 

You had made sure to become someone with nothing to lose.

That way you was sure to win.

You had better keep it that way.

"Is he still alive?" You nodded to the man in the armchair, who was still cradling the wine bottle. For the past few hours, he hadn't moved at all.

"One might think not," said Ruth. She gave him a kick on the shin. "Oi! Husk!"

The man startled awake, bottle raised as if it were a weapon. He narrowed his eyes at Ruth. "The fuck? What was that about?" His voice was gravelly, more than you would have expected for someone who appeared to be in his twenties. 

"Ah! Husker, my good fellow!" Alastor exclaimed, leaving the couch to circle around the armchair. "How nice of you to finally join us!"

"You should have just let me sleep," Husk grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. 

"Nonsense! We have a lovely guest who you simply must meet!" Alastor tipped the hat away from Husk's face. Husk glared daggers back at him, dark circles prominent under his eyes. Completely unfazed, Alastor carried on, "This darling is Jane Doe," he gestured to you with a flourish of his hand, "and like a new-born baby deer she stumbles every so often."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

_That was because you tripped me on purpose, you smiling fiend._

Husk gave you a long look. "Hi," he said noncomittedly, then turned back to Alastor. "Happy now? Great. Now leave me the fuck alone. I've had enough of you today."

Alastor leaned down, looping an arm around Husk's shoulders. "Husker, my friend, you shouldn't use such crude language in delicate company. Dear Bettie and Ruth may be used to you, but Jane is of good stock, you see. We wouldn't want to scare her away."

"I don't mind," you said, challenging his statement with a smile. You had grace and poise, but you were far from delicate. 

"See? She doesn't mind!" Husk elbowed his way out of Alastor's grasp and waved him away. 

"This is why you can never keep a job, my friend," Alastor said desparingly, shaking his head. "No wonder the military is the only place that will have you."

"Oh, no," you heard Bettie gasp.

Husk shot up from the armchair, grabbing Alastor by the collar. "And whose fault is that, you son of a bitch!"

Alastor was still smiling. He actually looked like he was enjoying this. But again, there was something there. Something that didn't add up. His voice calm, he said, "If I'm not mistaken, I wasn't the one who got caught drinking _on the job."_

"If it wasn't _for you_ I wouldn't have a reason to drink in the first place!"

The room fell quiet. 

After a few seconds that seemed to drag on for far too long, Roger cleared his throat. "I'm gonna go to the kitchen real quick and pretend I have somewhere else to be. Give a shout when you're done pointing fingers at each other." You glanced at Roger as he left, then let your gaze fall back on the two friends, who were now just staring at each other.

Alastor's smile was strained, the look in his eyes cold and detached. Whatever this fight was about, it was a sore point for both of them.

Husk let go of Alastor's collar, his anger clearly displayed on his face. "Now if you'd leave me the hell alone and let me forget I ever saw your face today—that'd be fuckin' grand." He slumped back down in the armchair, chugging down the wine as if it were water.

"As you wish," Alastor said, almost too quiet to be heard. For a moment there was uncertainty on his face, like an actor who had forgotten his next line. He quickly wiped it from his face and strode over to you. "Entertaining as this have been, I think we better get you home, my dear. You look a little worse for wear."

You were certain that you didn't, but allowed yourself to be excused, nonetheless. 

For some strange reason, you felt bad for him. 

He was using you as an excuse to leave. A splendid actor, he was, but you knew a performance when you saw one, having performed many yourself.

* * *

"Are you okay?" you found yourself asking when you were outside. The night air was brisk and refreshing, the stars bright above you as you walked side by side. Whatever buzz you had felt, it was gone with the cold.

"Splendid, my dear! I don't see why I wouldn't be." 

You had expected that answer, but it irritated you all the same.

"I don't believe you." It was barely a whisper, but he heard you.

Alastor grasped your wrist and turned you to face him. His face was wiped of all pretence, his features serious, but not angry. "Then you are far too observant of a stranger."

His words didn't register at first, because you were too preoccupied with the fact that he was. not. smiling. 

A shiver passed through you. The charm was warmer now, though that might be because you were outside, where it was cold and dark. He let go of your wrist, the warmth of his hand on your skin fading quickly in the night breeze.

"I ask that you kindly forget," he continued, his voice soft. "Just this once. I wouldn't want to spoil an otherwise perfect evening with such needless violence," a soft smile returned to his lips, "Husk is a good person, but he has always had a temper. And I have always had a knack for pushing his buttons, even when I don't intend to."

While you found the slip in his mask intriguing, you felt more at ease seeing him with a smile. "I would argue that everybody has a temper. Some people are just better at hiding it."

He chuckled. "A fair point. You seem to be well-tempered, though I suppose that might be a product of your upbringing."

"Looks can be deceiving," you sing-songed jokingly. "I'm only human. That means I am prone to losing my composure every now and again."

"Hm. I daresay you have my curiosity piqued."

"I'm glad I'm interesting enough to be noticed by someone of your calibre."

"You jest, but I don't usually find people all that interesting."

You gave a soft huff. "Is this where I'm supposed to swoon?"'

His smile grew wider, more impish. "I promise to catch you if you do."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Why, are you planning to trip me again?"

"Trip you? I have done no such thing. That would be incredibly ungentlemanly of me, wouldn't you say?"

Seeing no point in arguing with him, you changed the subject, "So, do you make a habit of walking single women home at night, or is it just me?"

"Well, you are by no means the first woman I've walked home, though I must say, you might be the first I will meet again."

There was a strange glint in his eyes as he spoke, a twist to his smile which spoke of a private joke. "So you're frivolous," you said. It wasn't uncommon, especially where men where concerned. For women it was a bit trickier, but they were no more saints than the idols your mother had kept on her altar in the attic.

Alastor stopped. "What?"

You turned around, stopping a few steps ahead of him. "You're a _new dame for every night kind of man._ Am I mistaken?"

Alastor threw his head back and laughed. He wiped at a non-existent tear on the corner of his eye, as if what you had just said was so _preposterous_ it had brought him to tears. "My darling Jane, wherever did you get that impression?"

"Did I mishear you?"

"I said I walked them home, not that I shared my nights with them. Why, are your ears so cold you have lost your hearing, my dear?" He walked closer, hands behind his back, and with a smile that was unapologetically shrewd. "Or were you hoping for a different kind of company?"

Suddenly flustered, you cleared your throat. "Don't forget that _you're_ the one who insisted on taking _me_ home, _dear_. If anyone's intention is to be questioned, it would be yours, Alastor."

He laughed softly under his breath, and your stomach fluttered treacherously at the sound. "I have no such intentions, you can trust me on that." He leaned in, levelling his eyes with yours. "Though I might be swayed if you keep blushing so sweetly, darling."

_If there is a God, smite this insufferable man._

"Oh, look! We're here!" you exclaimed, barely able to hide your relief. Your ears were positively burning, but you elected to ignore it, seeing how it _must_ be the cold. 

You were not some blushing dame, swayed by the charms of a man you barely knew.

Even if he had managed to be more intriguing in the first few seconds you'd spoken to him than most anyone you had ever met.

"So it would seem." Alastor glanced up at the hotel, then back at you. He took your hand in his, placing a kiss on the back, always the perfect gentleman. "Goodnight, Jane," he said, his breath ghosting your skin. Then he straightened up, eyes gleaming with delight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I'd be glad to take you home anytime."

"Goodnight Alastor," you said, before adding politely, "I had fun tonight."

"As did I. Sleep well, my dear." 

As you watched him walk away into the night, you thought that maybe, just maybe... he wasn't all that bad.

Maybe you _were_ still a bit tipsy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I spend my entire birthday writing this instead of going outside? Yup.  
> Do I regret it? Not one bit!
> 
> I got Husk, I got cake, so it's all fine and dandy! :D  
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it!


	4. The Biggest Mystery of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little slice of life... leading up to a shocking discovery!

You had a fitful sleep, tossing and turning. The shadows woke you with a start, slithering back across the ceiling as you flung yourself upright. You blinked away the last remnants of your dream, the eerie melody of your mother’s voice dying down in the silence of the room.

You were at the hotel. Your mother was dead.

The tremors in your hands calmed as you repeated those two sentences, until it became a mantra, until it became more real than the memories haunting your sleep.

You glanced at your mother’s portrait on the bed-side table, shivering as the dark played tricks on your eyes, making her smile seem more sardonic than playful. You placed it face-down, not trusting yourself to look at it any longer.

The first rays of sun were peering in through a small gap in-between the curtains and you hurried to pull them apart, drowning the room in blinding light.

Fond of the dark, as you were, there was such a thing as “too much of a good thing.”

The hum of the charm was quiet, the bone cold to the touch.

You had gotten used to its warmth.

But you supposed it was all in order. The terrors that came at night were nothing but dreams, easily dismissed with a calming exercise. It was the day terrors that needed to be kept at bay, foregoing your nightmares to haunt you while you were awake. The charm seemed to give you some much needed space, though you could still _feel_ them close by, their whispers quiet. If you didn't know better, you might have mistaken them for the wind. But if you listened, which you were prone to, you could hear their voices.

_Your destiny lies here, in New Orleans. You are a child of shadow and blood, of nightmares turned flesh._

Maybe the shadows were real, maybe they were calling you.

But if they wished to call you to some great purpose, they would be better served by a different approach. They weren't really selling it.

You gave a huff of laughter as you pressed your palm against your brow. Perhaps you were truly going crazy, starting to question if these shadows might actually be real, rather than figments of a traumatizing past.

You glanced to the mirror, realizing you had forgotten to wash away last night’s makeup. The lipstick was smeared, and your eye shadow smudged. The memory of your walk with Alastor reared its infuriating head, chasing away all thoughts of terrors. At once, the nightmare was forgotten, a strange buzzing feeling taking its place; something akin to anticipation. 

You gave a sigh, dismayed at your treacherous body. A hunter should never entertain useless fancies over sense. To be distracted during a hunt could be fatal.

You laughed at yourself, shaking your head beratingly at your reflection.

But the strange feeling refused to go away.

Ah, hell.

Who were you kidding? You had never been able to resist a challenge.

After washing your face clean and reapplying a more neutral layer of makeup, chastising yourself in front of the mirror all the while, you headed down for breakfast.

* * *

“I take it yesterday was a success?” Beatrice asked jokingly. “I was starting to wonder whether I should call a search party.”

“It was certainly interesting,” you admitted, taking a bite of Wonder Bread. “Are they always so dramatic?”

Beatrice glanced up from her bowl of cereal. “Who, doll? They _all_ have a flair for the dramatic. It’s practically the entrance fee into their circle. Why did you think they invited me?”

A smile curved on your lips. “True enough. I’m referring to Alastor and his grumpy companion. Husk, was it? They had a bit of a... falling out.”

“Mm. From what I’ve gathered, they been friends for quite some time. Friends have fights every now and then, nothin' strange there, it happens. But mama always said long friendships make for long-lastin' grudges. Such good friends, it’ll blow over eventually with words or fists... or it won’t.” She shrugged. “You know I pride myself on bein' a bit of an abercrombie and I might know lots _about_ them, but... Can't say I'm an expert on what goes on _inside_ those heads of theirs. Friendships between men can be surprisingly complicated."

"Needlessly so, one might think." You’d never had a friendship last longer than a year. It never got to the point of conflict since you always kept a comfortable distance. Most of your friendships fizzled out and died naturally from losing touch or interest. They were shallow, but at least they were easy to maintain, if you wished to.

"Alastor, especially, is not one easily read, even for me," Beatrice continued. "Granted, I've only actually met him one time, but I'm a bit surprised that he'd be caught in a situation like that. Especially in such good company. I would have thought he'd spend all his time trying to impress you."

You weren't entirely sure he hadn't succeeded.

"It wasn't something I would expect from someone who seems to put on a show wherever he goes," you admitted. "I can't say I know much about him, but he strikes me as someone very keen on appearances."

"And what a fine appearance it is, don't you agree, cher?" She winked at you and you laughed.

"Well, I guess I can't argue with that."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure they'll solve it, love. Bringing it up and acknowledging that something happened is a good first step."

“It didn’t seem like something that can be solved easily,” you mused, curious as to what had brought two long-term friends to where saying the wrong thing could set off such a significant reaction. Husk had thrown all sense out the window, and Alastor had done nothing to soothe his fury.

It bothered you. Not knowing what he was thinking.

Beatrice was watching you with a knowing smile, her chin propped up on her palm. “Even if it can’t, it’s not your problem to solve.”

She got you there.

“It’s not their problem I want to solve it’s—” _him._ You clamped your mouth shut. There was no way you could tell her that. It sounded too much like you were _interested_ in him, which was too easily misconstrued for something it was not.

He was a challenge. A mystery to solve. That was all.

Though, you supposed that was the closest you ever got to being genuinely interested in anyone.

No matter. You would better nip it in the bud, lest you compromise this whole plan.

“Anyway, apart from the in-fighting, so to speak, it was quite lovely," you said. "I even got to see an Alastor who isn’t all smiles, which was a treat in itself.”

Beatrice straightened at that. “You did? My, oh my.” She put a finger to her lip, then gave you a look that boded trouble.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have mentioned that. “I mean, he’s human," you began. "Of course, it would be natural for him to _not_ be smiling all the—”

Beatrice reached across the table, taking your wrists in her hands. She turned your arms this way and that, as if looking for something.

“What are you doing?” you asked, perplexed.

Beatrice let go of your wrists and sat back in her seat. She was positively _grinning_. “Just checkin’ if you’re a witch, because that’s _some_ magic, cher.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes at her. “It’s not as if I invented flying cars or anything. We shared a moment of… mutual understanding, I suppose you might say. That's all.”

“That’s not what I would call it,” you frowned at the sheer mischief in her voice, “He must fancy you a bunch to let down his guard like that.”

“The man has met me all of two times,” you protested.

“Believe me, that’s enough for most men. They see a pretty dame, they fall hard and fast.”

“Alastor doesn’t strike me as _most men._ ” 

“He isn’t, but he's not one to show weakness either.”

“Having emotions isn’t a weakness,” you pointed out.

“It is to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How could you possibly know that? I’m beginning to believe that _you’re_ the witch.”

“His mother. He is a proper momma's boy if ever I saw one. It wasn't easy on her, raising Alastor herself but she always tried her hardest to smile, no matter what. I don't know the full story, but I do know he's been the way he is for a long time. Even when she died, he didn't cry. Came to the funeral smiling like a fool, the poor dear. Suppose it was his way of honoring her memory.”

"Everyone handles grief differently," you agreed. To some, it was enough to simply cry and move on. To you, well... you were wanting for a more _hands-on_ approach. 

Beatrice nodded. "He's suffered many trials, and that leaves scars. And his mother, she was a complicated woman. Troubled. Far from perfect, though you'd never know from the way he talks about her. Loyal to a fault, that man, though I suppose it's part of his charm. He doesn't let people in easy, but when he does... he'll never let you go. Quite romantic when you think about it." 

"Hm," you said, deep in thought.

A complicated mother. A complicated relationship.

That you could understand.

Your own mother had raised you similarly. For years you had believed that was how everyone were raised, but you had come to understand there was a difference between being taught to show emotions where it was appropriate, and being taught certain emotions were inappropriate in and of themselves.

 _Smile, my little_ _Jane_ , she had told you, pulling at the edge of your mouth with her finger. _Nobody likes a wilted flower._

Though your mother had always loved you dearly, her love had always come at a cost. Even to herself.

If you'd learned anything from her tragedy, it was that love was never free. It was much better to steer clear of it.

“Is there anyone in this city you don’t know?” you asked Beatrice, pushing away the memory to the back of your mind.

Beatrice tilted her head up proudly. “Any good business owner must keep tabs on all their rivals, allies and potential customers alike. Also, gossip is the only currency most can afford in these troubling times.”

You nodded in agreement, glancing to the window and the streets outside. Even without the killer on the loose, the economy alone was a matter of great concern. People were struggling now more than ever, the lavish days of the roaring twenties left only to the rich and the foolish.

You were surprised, though very grateful, that Beatrice could still keep the hotel running.

In your case, you were fortunate to have been born into a family of great prosperity. Even with the economy going to hell you could live as you always had. But you weren’t blind to the suffering on the streets. Old and young, people were forced to abandon their homes. The poor starved, the sick dying hopelessly without money to pay for doctors and medicine. The new generation was one dominated by orphans and children who had seen enough death to grow accustomed to it.

While you had detached yourself from feeling anything for them, you hoped their suffering would end soon. Perhaps, once this whole revenge business was over, you would open a hotel of your own, or a shelter, a place catering to the needing, or those with no other place to go.

You turned your gaze to Beatrice, unnerved by the devious look on her face. It was one of prying and you steeled yourself, having an inkling of what she was about to ask.

“So…Will you see him again?” Beatrice asked, a teasing note to her voice.

“If bad luck would have it.”

“Here’s to hopin',” she said, laughing softly as she began to clear the table.

The door opened in the foyer, and Beatrice gave you a look as if to say, “Look, there he is now.”

But to your relief, it was not Alastor coming to call on you, but the two hotel staff arriving as scheduled. Etienne and Adalyn, Beatrice had told you. They were siblings, working to support their sick grandmother living outside of town. The father had succumbed to the same disease which was now claiming their grandmother, and their mother had run off, never to be seen again, presumably because of an affair.

The siblings were remarkably similar, and while you had met twins before, these two shared the same build and faces, despite being of different genders. Etienne wore glasses and had short black hair, while Adalyn kept hers in a long sleek braid. You weren’t sure if you could separate them, should they find it amusing to switch their clothing and play you for a fool.

“How was your weekends, loves?” asked Beatrice, after giving them both a bone-crushing hug.

“Eh,” Adalyn shrugged. “You know. The usual. Naan says hi!”

“She enjoyed your stew very much,” Etienne filled in. “She wanted me to pass along our compliments to the chef. C’était délicieux, Beatrice! Better than Adie, by far.”

Adalyn shot him an inquiring glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Etienne gave an innocent shrug.

Beatrice smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. How is she, the poor dear?”

“Better, I think,” said Adalyn. “She’s not nearly as grey as she was. But you know, she’s old. You never really know.” 

Beatrice gave Adalyn a comforting pat on the shoulder. “The stubbornness of that lady, I wouldn’t be surprised if she conquered death just to haunt us all with her _terrible jokes._ ”

The siblings laughed.

You wondered if there was anyone Beatrice didn’t get along with.

Well, there was that guy you had bumped into on your first day here.

What was his name again?

Something on J… Jim? James?

Your memory failed you.

Beatrice hadn’t mentioned him since then, and your curiosity was getting the better of you. They appeared to have been fighting about something... 

But that was an inquiry for another time.

“Where should we start?” Adalyn asked. “Is there anything that needs prioritizing?”

“Well, business has been dry… so I can tend to the reception desk just fine. But the rooms need cleaning—I haven’t had the time to go through them all. Then there’s the garden: it needs tending. Oh! And we’re nearly out of groceries.”

“On it!” said Etienne with a playful salute. “I’ll start with the garden, shall I?”

“I’ll clean the rooms,” said Adalyn, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I’ll make sure they’re _spotless!”_

“I can shop for groceries,” you offered. “I was meaning to go out today anyway.” You still needed to confront the witch and get your purse back. She might have spent the money already, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t the money you were after.

“Oh, love, you’re a guest,” said Beatrice. “Just enjoy your day. I can do the groceries later.”

“Nonsense. You deserve a break, Beatrice. You have been working nonstop all weekend.”

Beatrice hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“I am perfectly able to buy groceries,” you said, your tone defiant, a smile curving on your lips. “Any further arguments and I will consider it an insult to my female independence.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to insult your independence,” Beatrice said, matching your smile. “Thank you, cher.” She gave you a quick peck on the cheek.

Your throat felt tight, but you swallowed past it.

This city was making you soft. It must be that southern hospitality. Everyone here was so different from back home. More genuine, somehow. It was growing increasingly hard not to take notice with all these displays of affection thrown at you left and right.

* * *

To your dismay, the shop of curiosities was still closed. There was a note on the door, you noticed. A message.

_Patience is a virtue all flowers should have._

_It is still too early for you to bloom._

You breathed out through your nose, ripping the note from the door and crushing it into a crumpled ball. There was no doubt she had intended it for you.

You gave an incredulous laugh at the sheer audacity of this strange woman, who seemed intent on making you want to hunt her down.

If only she knew what that entailed, she might not be so quick to provoke you.

Grinding your teeth, you steered your steps to the grocery store. Even with Beatrice’s directions, it took you a while to find it. Saying it was so “unique, you couldn’t possibly miss it,” was a little misguiding, considering _all_ of the buildings were unique to your standards. They were all of different palettes, with their own embellishments and fun little details. It was like finding a clown at a carnival—they were bloody everywhere!

As you perused the ailes, guided by Beatrice’s list, you heard a loud “Ah!” behind you. You turned around, registering a flash of red-brown hair before you were pulled into a tight hug.

“Hi, Bettie,” you said, stiff in her grip. You weren’t averse to touch per se, but you liked to at least get a heads up when your personal space was to be invaded so publicly.

This disregard for personal space must be a family trait.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Bettie said. “I was meaning to visit you today, to uh, make sure you haven’t, you know, sworn off socializing forever on the account of my foolish cousin.” She made a pained face as she finally let you go. “I’m really sorry. Here I was hoping you’d make friends, when we can’t even seem to keep our own on good terms.”

“I am not so easily frightened,” you assured her. “Besides, a party without at least one threat of violence is considered _dull_ where I come from.”

Bettie seemed to know you were trying to make her feel better, and her arms flung back around you.

“I knew you would understand!” she exclaimed.

You should have kept your mouth shut.

People were beginning to stare, speculating about what manner of tearful reunion might be unfolding in front of their eyes.

Bettie finally seemed to notice and let you go. “Did you get home okay?” she asked. “I’m embarrassed to admit, I don’t quite remember you leaving.”

“Yes. Alastor took me home.”

“Thank goodness! Better a little gossip than dead. I’m sorry! That sounded very morbid, didn’t it?”

“I don’t mind a little morbid. Like lies, jokes are better with a hint of truth. Did you get home okay, or did you sleep at the café?”

“Oh! We live on the second floor. Me and Ruth. We’re... roommates!”

You guessed her self-consciousness had more to do with the people who might be looking for gossip than you.

“Where does Alastor live?” you found yourself asking.

“He rents an apartment downtown. I think he owns a cottage somewhere out in the bayou too, but—” she shrugged “I’ve never been there. A man of his age should be considering marriage already, but he remains stubbornly single. He prefers to lead a quiet life without _complications_ , he says.” She shook her head. “That silly radio show is all he cares about! It’ll consume him! One day he’ll wake up ninety and realize he’s squandered all his chances at having a fulfilling life.”

Strange. If he didn’t live with Bettie, or somewhere nearby, where had he been going last night? By foot, no less.

“I think it’s an admirable thing, to dedicate yourself to something so wholly,” you said. “I have never cared much for marriage either. Not that I’m opposed to it, but if you can lead a happy life without it, I see no reason not to. It’s more of a formality anyway, for the sake of tradition.”

Bettie scowled at you. “You’re just as bad as him! This is terrible! Now I have to worry my whole life about _both of you_ ending up alone!” Something shifted on her face—a realization that immediately set off alarms in your head.

You gave her a long level look, hoping to stop her train of thought before it went off the rails completely. “No.”

“You’re _perfect_ for each other!” Bettie squealed, ignoring the disgust on your face. “You both like your privacy, you’re both head-strong and good-looking. It’s perfect! Oh, Jane, it’s like a match made in Heaven!”

Hell, more like.

You and Alastor… now that would be a power struggle for the ages. How would that even work?

You pushed aside the memory of last night. Of him kissing your hand and looking at you with those eyes, just a shade shy of red, as if you were something to be devoured.

Attraction alone did not a good couple make, and you were determined to never allow your heart the missing component.

“It’s more likely that we would tear each other apart,” you said, as you placed a pleading hand on Bettie’s shoulder. “ _Please_ , don’t try to set us up.”

Bettie waved at the air. “Pfft, I would never!" Her conviction faltered as she continued, "I mean if you just _happen_ to be mysteriously running into one another at parties that doesn’t count, right?”

“Bettie. I’m serious.”

“But you would make the sweetest babies! Just imagine!”

“I’d rather not.” You walked away, marking the conversation as over.

You had never even _wanted_ children, and with _Alastor?_

The saying “Two wrongs don’t make a right” came to mind. You shuddered, eradicating any and all thoughts on the subject.

Bettie hurried to catch up to you, looking like a sad puppy. “Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry! It’s just, you seem to be on his level! It seems so natural with you, like someone actually _gets_ him, you know?”

“That says more about him, honestly. It is not up to others to understand him—if he wanted you to understand, I’m sure he would simply tell you what he’s thinking or what he wants," you gave Bettie a friendly boop on the nose, eliciting a laugh from her. "It’s evident he doesn’t want to be understood. He thrives on being the smartest person in the room and being obnoxious for the hell of it.”

Much like yourself.

“See!” Bettie exclaimed excitedly. “You get him! I thought he was just being obnoxious because he’s bad at expressing himself!”

You laughed softly. “He is a talkative fellow. I’m sure he’s perfectly able to express himself, should he want to. Besides, he doesn’t seem the type to let anything get in the way of what he truly wants.”

“I guess. But it’s so fun to meddle! Just once, I want to see him lose his composure! I would kill to see him flustered! Well, not actually kill because that would be really bad, but you know what I mean! I want to see him _blush_ and second-guess himself. I want to see him angry. Like properly angry. He's always acting so in control, you know? It'd be nice if he'd let loose a little!”

You would like to see it too. To see him stripped of _all_ his pretenses. Last night had been a glimpse into a well that was reaching much deeper than what you had seen. “Well, then you should poke him where it hurts,” you said. “Do you know _why_ Husk is so angry with him?”

Bettie shook her head. “All I know is that they were the best-est of friends one day, and the next everything seemed to have changed. It’s been like that for years. They still haven’t sorted it out.”

“Years?” That was interesting. “How come it’s been so long?”

“Because they’re both stubborn fools who never want to admit they did anything wrong? I’ve tried bringing up the subject before—did not go over well. So, we just swept it under the rug. Typical of Al to fight fire with oil. If someone upsets him, he always has to pay it back ten-fold. And Husk has never been one to _talk_ at all. In some ways, they're like kids. But you can't tell Al I told you that!”

“Pinky promise," you said, holding up your little finger. You shared a smile. "If you really want him to get angry, I'd advise you to just keep pushing until the dam breaks."

"Do you think that would help?"

"Well, I honestly have no idea. You give me far too much credit. I'm not so sure I understand your cousin at all."

“Don't worry! You're doing great!" Bettie said encouragingly. "Unlike most people you actually stand a chance at getting to know him! He likes you. It's so obvious! Like in the way that it's not? Does that make sense?"

"Not even a little," you dead-panned.

"I'm positive he likes you! He's just being needlessly indirect about it." She sighed. "You know, sometimes I wonder how Al turned out this way. When we were little he would tell me _everything!_ ” Bettie pouted her lips. “He was so _cute_ too! Always following me around.”

Something about that didn’t sound quite right.

Come to think of it...

“I have been meaning to ask," you said. "How old are you?” 

She looked up at you with her big brown eyes. “Thirty-two. Why?”

You blinked slowly. Then you blinked again. “I didn't hear that wrong, did I? You're thirty—"

"Two!"

"Thirty-two," you repeated. "Thirty-two..."

She looked barely a day over eighteen.

She was older than you.

She was older than _Alastor._

You couldn’t believe it.

Of all the mysteries in New Orleans, that one shook you to your very core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Alastor coming soon, I promise! ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> I really appreciate your kudos, bookmarks and comments! Really, thank you guys so much!! <3


End file.
